UC-NRLF 


ISfl    3D2 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 

CASf 


THE 
ROAD  TO  CASTALY 

ALICE    BROWN 


BOSTON 

COPELAND   AND   DAY 
MDCCCXCVI 


5^X 

OF  THE     '        \ 

f   UNIVERSITY   1 

OF  / 


COPYRIGHT  1896  BY  COPELAND  AND  DAY 


TO 

LOUISE   IMOGEN   GUINEY 


169103 


THE   ROAD   TO   CASTALY 

\ 

SOVEREIGNS  of  the  sacred  mount, 
Circled  round  her  silver  fount,  — 
Sires  of  life  who  song  began,  — 
Swiftest  heralds,  ye  who  ran 
With  winged  sandals  up  the  way 
Where  unled  the  Muses  stray  : 
Hear  us  !    we  who  haste  to  ye, 
Pensioners  of  poesy. 
Native  airs  of  song  ye  breathe  ; 
Deathless  buds  your  foreheads  wreathe  ; 
Yet  not  wholly  are  ye  blest 
Over  us,  who  walk  confest 
Beggars  of  the  charity 
Shuttled  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky  ; 
Destined  aye  to  keep  the  road 
Far  from  that  august  abode  ; 
Fated  ne'er  to  taste  the  spring 
Set  for  poet's   quickening. 
Only  born  to  braid  our  lays 
In  the  garlanding  of  praise  ; 
Born  to  praise  the  Muses  Nine, 
Praise  the  One  unknown,  divine, 


Who  upon  our  bosoms  set 
His  unfading  amulet : 
"  Ever  seek  and  never  see ; 
Die  uncrowned  yet  votary." 
Fain  are  we  of  beechen  boughs  ; 
We  are  they  the  pine  endows 
With  hot  scent  of  pungent  power, 
Sealing  so  the  noonday  hour. 
Bitter  bread  to  us  is  sweet. 
Highway  brambles  kiss  our  feet. 
Dust  yclad,  our  dreams  we  sing 
Round  about  the  roadside  spring. 
Nay,  not  all  unblest  are  we 
Wayfarers  to  Castaly  ! 


Contents 

THE    ROAD    TO    CASTALY  Page   vii 

WOOD-LONGING  I 

PAN  4 

SUNRISE    ON     MANSFIELD    MOUNTAIN  8 

ESCAPE  10 

CANDLEMAS  I  2 

MARINERS  I  3 

MORNING    IN    CAMP  15 

RED    MAGIC  I  8 

MIST  19 

WHEN    DAYS    ARE    LONG  19 

REVELATION  1 9 

THE    HEART    AND    LOVE  2O 

LIFE  22 

PAGAN     PRAYERS  22 

YESTERDAY  22 

NO    ANSWER  23 

AN    INVOCATION  23 

THE    RETURN  24 

FOREWARNED  z6 

A    WEST-COUNTRY    LOVER  2J 

DESTINY  29 

LOVE    DENIED  29 

ON    PILGRIMAGE  31 


MAGDALEN  ?age   32 

A    FAREWELL  32 

TO    CIRCE  3  3 

RENEWAL  3  3 

THE    MESSAGE  34 

FAMINE  3" 

ON    THE    FIELD  3" 

EDWIN    BOOTH  37 

HORA    CHRISTI  4° 

IN    EXTREMIS  42 

KNIGHTHOOD    ETERNAL  43 

HEIMGEGANGEN  45 

SLEEP  46 

LETHE  47 

THE    SILENT    WATCH  4^ 

TRILBY  49 

DREAMS  5° 

THE    POET  52 

THE    SLANDERER  52 

SEAWARD    BOUND  53 

TEWKESBURY    ABBEY  55 

CONTENT  5  5 

THE  HEART'S  TRUE  CHOICE  5 6 

THE  SPIRIT'S  HOUR  5^ 

MAN  TO  WOMAN  57 

THE    UNSEEN    FELLOWSHIP  58 

THE    FLIGHT    OF    THE    FAIRIES  60 


THE    ROAD    TO    CASTALY 


WOOD-LONGING 

O  BOOKS,  my  books,  ye  give  me  naught  for 
all  my  asking ! 
Vain  is  the  spirit's  tasking 
To  raise  up  honor  from  the  printed  line, 
Or  scent  ripe  clusters  in  the  long-dried  wine 
Of  antique  banquets  spilled  upon  the  page. 
O  books  are  but  the  cage 
Where  echoes  of  the  spirit  sing, 
Nor  ever  truly  ring 

The  clarion  cry,  the  tabor  and  the  pipe, 
Whereto,  ere  yet  the  year  is  ripe, 
The  happy  rivers  run,  with  rhythmic  glancing, 
And  all  the  fauns  and  satyrs  fall  a-dancing  ! 
One  medicine  hath  life  for  sick  and  sane  ; 
One  crown  of  joy,  one  solacing  for  pain. 
Who  beauty  seeks  and  truth, 
Or  springs  of  vanished  youth, 
With  fitful  joyance,  or  that  full  content 
For  gods  and  lilies  meant, 


Wood-       Swift  be  his  passing  to  the  field  and  wood, 
Longing.    rpo  £ce  ^  jmmemoria}  passion  of  the  flood, 
The  amplitude  of  all  the  fertile  plains, 
Where  mild  abundance  reigns  ; 
The  seated  majesty  of  crowned  hills, 
Whose  mantling  shadow  fills 
The  well-loved  valley  softly  laid  below, 
Fed  from  the  rock,  in  royal  overflow. 

Spirit,  what  wilt  thou  dare 

Just  to  be  one  with  earth  and  air  ? 

To  read  the  writing  on  the  river  bed, 

And  trace  God's  mystical  mosaic  overhead  ? 

O  sweet  familiar  of  the  rustling  leaf, 

Dear  idle  mourner  of  the  gathered  sheaf, 

Lover  and  guardian  of  the  beech-tree's  bole, 

Wooer  unwearied  of  her  dryad  soul, 

Tippler  on  sacramental  wine, 

The  great  round  world  is  thine  ! 

Thy  rich  inheritance  to  tread  the  earth 

When  all  the  ecstasy  of  myriad  birth 

Afflicts  her  with  a  rapturous  shuddering  ; 

To  feel  the  beating  of  the  mighty  wing 

Wherewith  the  great  wind  winnows  out  her  halls, 

Where  never  footing  falls 

But  it  makes  music,  as  the  sweep  of  stars, 

And  not  one  jarring  note  the  lyric  heaven  mars. 

Thy  happy  destiny  to  lie 

Within  the  thriftless  grasses,  opulently 

Sifting  thy  jewels  with  an  idle  touch, 

Still  heedless  of  how  little  or  how  much 


The  careless  giving  of  the  royal  hour,  Wood- 

For  all  the  morn  is  thine,  and  the  great  sun  Longing. 

thy  dower. 

O  happy  beggary  ! 
O  greedy  eye 
And  all  unsated  heart  ! 
Thou  only  hast  a  part 
In  treasures  manifold 
Of  wealth  that  grows  not  old. 
O  incommunicable  speech  ! 
For  he  who  reads  a  book  may  preach 
A  hundred  sermons  from  its  foolish  rote 
And  rhyme  reiterant  on  one  dull  note. 
But  he  who  spends  an  hour  within  the  wood 
Hath  fed  on  fairy  food ; 
And  who  hath  eaten  of  the  forest  fruit 
Is  ever  mute. 
Nothing  may  he  reveal. 
Nature  hath  set  her  seal 
Of  honor  on  anointed  lips  ; 
And  one  who  daring  dips 
His  cup  within  her  potent  brew 
Hath  drunk  of  silence  too. 
What  doth  the  robin  say, 
And  what  the  martial  jay  ? 
Who  '11  swear  the  bluebird's  lilt  is  all  of  love, 
Or  who  translate  the  desolation  of  the  dove  ? 
For  even  in  the  common  speech 
Of  feathered  fellows,  each  to  each, 
Abideth  still  the  primal  mystery, 
3 


Wood-       The  brooding  past,  the  germ  of  life  to  be  ; 
Longing.    ^n(j  one  pQor  weec^  upspringing  to  the  sun, 

Breeds  all  creation's  wonder,  new  begun. 

Come,  then,  who  would  be  free, 

Break  bonds  and  run  with  me ! 

Stay  not  your  hasting  till  the  mystic  round 

Of  green,  untrodden  ground 

Hath  hid  us  from  the  eyes  of  men ; 

There  to  be  young  again, 

There  to  forget  old  passion's  folly 

And  all  dull  learning's  melancholy. 

Come,  for  the  forest  calls ! 

Come,  ere  the  echo  falls ! 


H 


PAN 

:ARK !  you  may  hear  him  stirring, 
More  softly  than  the  whirring 
Of  filmy,  hair-veined  wings, 
Or  thrill  of  echoing  strings 
When  the  sad  pine,  with  weaving  minstrelsy, 
Mocks  the  imagined  music  of  the  sea. 
The  fall  of  ebon  hoof! 
Stand  lightly  by,  aloof, 
And  you  may  see  him  pass, 
Unwounding  the  lush  grass, 
Dropping  diffusive  balm 

From  honey  breath  and  careless  hollowed  palm,- 
Known  of  the  hawk,  unnoted  now  of  man, 
The  great  god  Pan  ! 

4 


Where  was  he  hiding 

When  men,  deriding 

The  lisping  lore  of  years  when  years  were  young, 

And  song  held  some  sweet  measures  yet  unsung, 

Declared  him  dead, 

His  great  dominion  fled, 

And  nailed  their  rhymes  above  his  mossy  bier  ? 

Ah  !  in  the  youth  or  age  o'  the  year, 

In  sunshine,  or  in  midnight  murk, 

Still  did  the  goat-god  lurk 

In  the  green  forest  glade, 

Of  naught  afraid 

But  of  the  curious  eye, 

Of  ominous  crash,  and  echo-frighting  cry  : 

"This  way  he  ran  ! 

Surely  the  one  called  Pan  !  " 

In  the  deep  wood ! 

The  wood  so  deep  that  one  scarce  enters  there 
With  willing  foot,  but  warm-left  lair 
Of  timorous  beast  is  found, 
And  o'er  the  hollow  ground 
Faint,  pattering  paws  of  thrifty  squirrels  tread  ; 
The  sanctuary  where  spent  winds  are  fled, 
And  nuts  lie  stored 
Richer  than  Rhine-washed  hoard; 
Where  every  hollow  tree  hath  honey  cells; 
Here  where  the  wild  dove  dwells, 
And  one  secluded,  choir-remembering  thrush 
Strikes  silvernly  across  the  solemn  hush 
Of  the  vast  shadowy  stillness,  with  his  flute 
5 


Pan.       And  cymbals,  —  and  is  mute. 

Where  the  shy  partridge  rounds  her  nest, 

And  by  lone  Silence  blest, 

Teaches  her  young  the  sweet  wood-lessoning 

Of  hiding    under    leaf   and    flight    on    fluttering 
wing. 

There,  on  a  day  of  all  delight, 

Dropping  through  purpling  reaches  down  to  shore 
less  night, 

Day  sprung  from  some  far,  Titan-bosomed  source, 

And  leaving,  in  its  course, 

The  hills  enriched,  the  valleys  drowned  with  joy — 

Day  for  a  god's  employ  — 

I  saw  him,  I, 

Unworthily 

Spying  upon  him,  creeping  in  the  deep 

Removed  courts,  where  Dian's  self  might  sleep. 

Over  my  crawling  flesh  swift  prescience  ran  : 

The  living  Pan ! 

His  brow  was  crowned  that  day, 

Not  with  the  myrtle  and  the  bay, 

Or  flower  ambrosial  sprung  from  storied  fields, 

But  all  the  woodland  yields 

Of  blessed  homely  leaf 

Garnered  in  Summer's  sheaf 

Of  joys.      The  wilding  clematis 

Roved  o'er  his  regnant  front  with  rioting  kiss; 

The  royal  goldenrod 

There  learned  to  nod, 

Entreating  she  might  touch  his  tangled  hair, 

And  so  transmute  herself  to  fairest  fair  ; 
6 


Great  lilies  lustred  o'er  the  living  crown  ;  Pan. 

And  trailing  down 

His  mighty  sides,  the  dull  hop-vine 

Did  with  her  dreaming  mates  entwine. 

Upon  one  shaggy  knee 

He  handled  tenderly 

A  youngling  fox,  whose  mother  stood  thereby, 

Watching  with  worshipful  and  drowsy  eye 

The  laughing  god  and  laughing  little  one, 

Both  children  of  the  sun, 

Loved  of  the  wind, 

And  understood  by  all  four-footed  kind. 

Ah  !  who  but  one  reed-piping  in  the  wood  might 

now 

Sing  of  the  god  himself,  his  music-haunted  brow, 
His  cheeks,  like  autumn  hillocks,  overspread 
With  bloom  of  russet  red 

Richer  than  wine  spilled  o'er  young  maple  tips  ? 
His  glowing  lips 
For  generous  laughter  curved  ;  the  all-compelling 

eye 
Where  buried  sunlit  sands  discovered  lie 

But  hush  !  ah,  hush  !  lay  listening  ear 
To  earth  !     Dost  thou  not  hear 
His  rhythmic  tread  ?     The  gladdened  air 
Drips  with  the  wood-scent  from  his  tossing  hair  ; 
The  very  cloud 

Trails  lower;  and  the  oriole's  loud 
Bright  plaint  is  piercing,  unsubdued, 
The  lattice  of  her  leaf-wrought  solitude  ; 
7 


Pan.        The  robin  blither  sings, 

The  blindworm  dreams  of  wings. 

Lower  !  bow  low !  abase  thy  trivial  state,  O  man  ! 

He  comes,  the  earth-god,  Pan  ! 


SUNRISE   ON   MANSFIELD   MOUNTAIN 

O  SWIFT  forerunners,  rosy  with  the  race ! 
Spirits  of  dawn,  divinely  manifest 
Behind  your  blushing  banners  in  the  sky, 
Daring  invaders  of  Night's  tenting-ground,  — 
How  do  ye  strain  on  forward-bending  foot, 
Each  to  be  first  in  heralding  of  joy  ! 

With  silence  sandalled,  so  they  weave  their  way, 
And  so  they  stand,  with  silence  panoplied, 
Chanting,  through  mystic  symbollings  of  flame, 
Their  solemn  invocation  to  the  light. 

O  changeless  guardians  !      O  ye  wizard  firs  ! 
What  strenuous  philter  feeds  your  potency, 
That  thus  ye  rest,  in  sweet  wood-hardiness, 
Ready  to  learn  of  all  and  utter  naught  ? 
What  breath  may  move  ye,  or  what  breeze  invite 
To  odorous  hot  lendings  of  the  heart  ? 
What  wind  —  but  all  the  winds  are  yet  afar, 
And  e'en  the  little  tricksy  zephyr  sprites, 
That  fleet  before  them,  like  their  elfin  locks, 
8 


Have  lagged  in  sleep,  nor  stir  nor  waken  yet          Sunrise 
To  pluck  the  robe  of  patient  majesty.  °Mansjield 

Mountain. 

Too  still  for  dreaming,  too  divine  for  sleep, 
So  range  the  firs,  the  constant,  fearless  ones. 
Warders  of  mountain  secrets,  there  they  wait, 
Each  with  his  cloak  about  him,  breathless,  calm, 
And  yet  expectant,  as  who  knows  the  dawn, 
And  all  night  thrills  with  memory  and  desire, 
Searching  in  what  has  been  for  what  shall  be  : 
The  marvel  of  the  ne'er  familiar  day, 
Sacred  investiture  of  life  renewed, 
The  chrism  of  dew,  the  coronal  of  flame. 
Low  in  the  valley  lies  the  conquered  rout 
Of  man's  poor,  trivial  turmoil,  lost  and  drowned 
Under  the  mist,  in  gleaming  rivers  rolled, 
Where  oozy  marsh  contends  with  frothing  main. 
And  rounding  all,  springs  one  full,  ambient  arch, 
One  great  good  limpid  world  —  so  still,  so  still ! 
For  no  sound  echoes  from  its  crystal  curve 
Save  four  clear  notes,  the  song  of  that  lone  bird 
Who,  brave  but  trembling,  tries  his  morning  hymn, 
And  has  no  heart  to  finish,  for  the  awe 
And  wonder  of  this  pearling  globe  of  dawn. 

Light,  light  eternal !  veiling-place  of  stars  ! 
Light,  the  revealer  of  dread  beauty's  face  ! 
Weaving  whereof  the  hills  are  lambent  clad  ! 
Mighty  libation  to  the  Unknown  God  ! 
Cup  whereat  pine-trees  slake  their  giant  thirst 
And  little  leaves  drink  sweet  delirium  ! 
9 


Sunrise      Being  and  breath  and  potion  !  living  soul 

°?f         , ,  And  all-informing  heart  of  all  that  lives  ! 
Mansfield  TT  b    .r     ,  .  r  , 

Mountain.  -How  can  we  magnify  thine  awful  name 

Save  by  its  chanting  :  Light  !  and  light  !  and  light ! 
An  exhalation  from  far  sky  retreats, 
It  grows  in  silence,  as  't  were  self-create, 
Suffusing  all  the  dusky  web  of  night. 
But  one  lone  corner  it  invades  not  yet, 
Where  low  above  a  black  and  rimy  crag 
Hangs  the  old  moon,  thin  as  a  battered  shield, 
The  holy,  useless  shield  of  long-past  wars, 
Dinted  and  frosty,  on  the  crystal  dark. 

But  lo  !  the  east,  —  let  none  forget  the  east, 

Pathway  ordained  of  old  where  He  should  tread. 

Through  some  sweet  magic  common  in  the  skies, 

The  rosy  banners  are  with  saffron  tinct ; 

The  saffron  grows  to  gold,  the  gold  is  fire, 

And  led  by  silence  more  majestical 

Than  clash  of  conquering  arms,  He  comes !     He 

comes ! 

He  holds  his  spear  benignant,  sceptrewise, 
And  strikes  out  flame  from  the  adoring  hills. 


o 


ESCAPE 

MY  people,  my  own  Little  People,  come 

back 

From  your  home  in  the  house  of  dreams  ! 
Build  of  your  magic  a  shining  track  ; 
Set  silver  sails  on  the  hurrying  streams 
10 


That  run  from  the  rifts  of  the  past  !  Escape. 

Tie  Jack-with-his-lantern  on  every  mast, 

To  sing,    "  Good  cheer, 

Little  mariner  ! 

Here  's  a  tricksy  defiance  to  every  gale, 

And  a  health  to  the  billows  whereon  we  sail!" 

Pour  from  the  flowers  and  out  of  the  flood ; 

From  the   hollows  of  moss  in  the  heart  of  the 

wood  ! 

Flitting  and  skipping,  oh,  leap  and  dance  ! 
Warily  trip  it  where  fireflies  glance  ! 
O,  hurry,  I  pray  ye,  nor  waste  ye 
One  moment,  but  hitherward  haste  ye  ! 
Come,  blink  at  this  market  of  groans  and  sighs, 
With  elfin  grimaces  and  wondering  eyes  ; 
And  drown  all  our  chaffer  of  hatred  and  dole 
With  sweet  limpid  laughter  that  tickles  the  soul ! 
For  the  courage  of  manhood  is  dying, 
And  hearts  are  made  only  for  sighing. 
We  're  sick  for  the  sight  of  ye, 
Starved  for  the  sound  of  ye, 
Faint  for  the  lack  of  ye  ! 
Sick  for  the  sight  of  a  coat  of  green, 
A-shimmer  like  leaves  in  their  morning  sheen  ; 
Starved  for  the  sound  of  a  patter  and  play 
Like  iris  drops  on  an  April  day  ! 
For,  O  Little  People  !  our  souls  live  alone, 
Together,  yet  lone,  in  dwellings  of  stone. 
And    the    corners    are  square,   and    the   stone   in 

blocks, 

And  there  '  s  never  the  look  of  the  lichened  rocks ; 
1 1 


Escape.      And  we  sit  on  benches  of  carven  wood. 

Now  you  know,  Little  People,  it's  never  good 

For  a  poor,  poor  soul  to  be  pent  in  a  place 

Where  the  sky  's  a  window  and  not  a  space  ; 

Nor  to  strive  to  be  keeping  its  pinions  free 

When  it  never  can  nest  in  a  living  tree. 

So  come,  little  brothers,  and  laugh  and  sing; 

Draw  on  the  pavement  a  fairy  ring  ! 

Pull  us  into  it,  every  one, 

And  set  us  dancing  till  day  is  done ! 

Then  draw  us  dancing  out  of  the  town 

Into  the  land  where  the  sun  goes  down 

Under  the  pennons  that  flame  and  fly 

In  a  golden  dream  on  a  golden  sky  ! 

And  there  —  but  what  happens  is  past  all  guess 
ing, 

Past  all  thinking  and  all  expressing. 
Enough  for  the  earth- worn  soul  to  be 
In  a  world  where  a  man  and  a  fay  are  free. 


CANDLEMAS 


o 


HEARKEN,  all  ye  little  weeds 
That  lie  beneath  the  snow, 
(So  low,  dear  hearts,  in  poverty  so  low !) 
The  sun  hath  risen  for  royal  deeds, 
A  valiant  wind  the  vanguard  leads ; 
Now  quicken  ye,  lest  unborn  seeds 
Before  ye  rise  and  blow. 

12 


O  furry  living  things,  adream  Candle- 

On  winter's  drowsy  breast, 
(How  rest  ye  there,  how  softly,  safely  rest !) 

Arise  and  follow  where  a  gleam 

Of  wizard  gold  unbinds  the  stream, 

And  all  the  woodland  windings  seem 
With  sweet  expectance  blest. 

My  birds,  come  back!  the  hollow  sky 

Is  weary  for  your  note. 

(Sweet- throat,  come    back  !     O    liquid,    mellow 
throat !) 

Ere  May's  soft  minions  hereward  fly, 
Shame  on  ye,  laggards,  to  deny 
The  brooding  breast,  the  sun-bright  eye, 
The  tawny,  shining  coat ! 


MARINERS 


WE  are  the  warders  of  the  middle  world, 
Where  ripples  breathe  with  blossomy  edges 
curled, 

Like  frostwork  over  lambent  emeralds  set, 
Or  changeful  light  from  beauty's  coronet. 
Fall-sailed,  high-hearted,  o'er  the  glassy  brink 
Of  watery  ways  we  slip  and  glide  amain, 
Into  smooth  hollows,  rising  link  on  link, 
O'er  toppling  crests,  down-dropping  to  the  plain; 
While  our  uncertain  foothold  still  doth  range 
Through  sweet  and  mystic  fantasies  of  change. 
13 


Mariners.  O  beauty's  lover !  hither  run,  and  roam 

From  ridge  to  ridge  of  unconstrained  flight, 

Where  break  the  liquid  shards  about  our  keel, 

Only  to  close  again  in  serried  light : 

As  passionate  sunbeams  rise  and  turn  and  wheel 

And  fix  in  keen  array  their  javelins  bright. 

Here  is  assuaging  of  that  ancient  thirst 

Begot  by  feeding  on  remembered  days  : 

An  image  fair  for  hunger's  empty  gaze. 

Lucent  lagoons  lie  here  berimmed  with  foam  ; 

And  inland  eyes  that  loved  a  river  first 

Through  the  salt  plash  see  threading  silver  gleam, 

And  touch  the  tress  of  Arethusa's  stream. 

Here  when  the  mist  her  flimsy  portal  locks, 

The  unwearied  vision  wakes,  to  build  a  dream 

Of  trembling  ferns  and  hoary-bearded  rocks, 

Of  idling  bushes  by  the  runnel's  bound, 

And  reaching  trees  in  some  fair  orchard  ground. 

Through  the  green  darkness  of  this  watery  life, 
The  hollow  caverns  of  the  under-sea, 
Gigantic  branches  twine  in  waving  strife, 
And  uncouth  monsters  wallow  formlessly. 
They  know  not  us,  nor  guess  the  way  we  go. 
Fill  full  the  sail,  O  master  wind,  and  blow  ! 
Draw  thou  our  homesick  eyes,  the  while  we  flee, 
To  some  sky  solitude  where  dwells  a  star, 
And  points  us  where  our  heavenly  fortunes  are. 


MORNING    IN   CAMP 

VOUCHSAFE  me  now  the  holy  cup  of  song, 
Ye  to  whom  sacred  chalices  belong, 
Attendant  ministers  of  day  and  night ! 
The  mystic  golden  cup,  o'erchased  with  light, 
And  fine  from  foot  to  curve  of  carven  brim  ; 
For  I  would  fill  it  to  the  circling  rim 
With  those  clear  drops  of  heaven's  ecstasy 
Oozing  like  precious  nard  from  beauty's  tree  : 
Joy  of  the  growing  leaf,  the  bird,  the  wind, 
Born  to  sink  soundless  into  blood  and  mind, 
To  pierce  the  very  heart  of  passion's  core, 
And  so  make  one  with  being  evermore. 
Yea,  niggard  of  the  over-blossomed  hour, 
I  would  seal  up  its  bliss-engendering  power, 
Caught  in  the  miracle  of  rhythmic  sound 
As  seeds  are  prisoned  in  their  guardian  ground, 
And  hold  it  for  some  day  of  dearth  and  pain, 
That  I  might  thus  inherit  wood  and  plain, 
And  of  the  weft  of  life  make  fantasy, 
And  revellings  from  out  my  poverty. 

Awake  at  dawn !  yet  still  with  sleep  endued, 
But  conscious  of  my  tent's  white  solitude  ; 
The  strident  cawing  of  the  black-coat  choir, 
Dulcet  in  dissonance,  untuned  to  lyre 
As  to  the  reed  :   a  rasp  of  vibrant  song 
Wherein  no  note  is  well,  but  none  falls  wrong. 
Keyed  at  wild  will,  but  ever  yet  in  tune, 
Chimes  the  true  chorus  called  by  quiring  June, 


Morning   As  though  the  unseen  steeples  of  the  air 

in  Camp.    Shouid  rock  with  bliss>  and  that  fine  hidden  stair 

Whereby  the  heart  climbs  up  to  kiss  her  dream, 
Bloom  out  resplendent  in  a  rainbow  gleam. 
And  faint,  far  notes  like  nestlings  strive  and  spring, 
Too  little  yet  to  trust  their  trembling  wing. 
These  be  the  tiny  feathered  citizens 
For  whom  the  wood  creates  her  airy  glens, 
And  the  great  tolerant  pine-tree  waxeth  high, 
To  give  them  covert  from  the  love-bright  sky. 
These  be  our  little  brothers,  O  ye  poor 
Heart-weary  toilers,  come  to  this  wide  door 
Of  dear  wood  solitude,  to  wander  free 
And  joyance  take  in  their  fair  company. 
Lo,  where  I  lie  here  lapped  in  waters  sweet 
Of  waveless  indolence  from  head  to  feet, 
How  well  I  know  the  rapt  ecstatic  birth 
Renewed  without !   the  mirrored  sky  and  earth, 
Married  in  beauty,  consonant  in  speech, 
And  uttering  bliss  responsive  each  to  each. 
The  daintier  beauty  grows  here  at  my  door 
In  weed  and  brier ;  even  through  the  floor 
Springs,  barbed  on  velvet,  one  bold  raspberry, 
Born  for  no  fruitage,  for  no  eye  to  see 
But  mine,  in  this  my  tented  privacy. 
How  the  ferns  waver,  wakened  by  no  wind 
Save  the  green  flickering  of  their  blossomy  mind ! 
And  there  beyond,  the  water  laps  the  land, 
Encircling  her  with  charm  of  silver  sand, 
The  ring  through  which  her  beauty  may  not  pass, — 
No,  not  for  mirroring  in  that  still  glass. 
16 


Now  while  the  body  lies  supine  in  sound  Morning 

And  bathed  by  sovereign  air  from  dewy  ground,        m  ^amP- 

Or  winds  who  sweep  untired  through  the  night 

Conserving  balm  of  blessedness  in  flight, 

Out  fleets  the  soul,  and  takes  her  softly  forth 

To  meet  the  dawn ;    and  whether  south  or  north 

Or  east  or  west,  some  altar,  bright  with  fire, 

Springs  up  bedecked  before  her  one  desire 

To  sing  her  matins  ere  the  daunting  day. 

The  ashy  dust  of  night  falls  swift  away 

From  her  strong  pinions,  and  she  rideth  free 

Serene  upon  the  morning's  majesty. 

Above  spice-budded  tops  of  fringing  firs, 

The  shimmering  birches,  delicate  ministers 

To  eye's  delight,  and  o'er  the  deepening  rose 

Of  the  still  lake,  a  soundless  shade  she  goes. 

What  shall  withstand  her  ?    Not  the  mountain  wall 

Where  the  first  potencies  of  dawning  fall, 

Touching  and  moulding  till  awakes  a  flower, 

A  jewelled  heart  of  light,  a  throne  of  power. 

Not  all  the  barriers  of  rock  and  stream  ; 

For  who  hath  caught  the  swift,  evanished  gleam 

Of  Beauty's  mantle  hath  the  charmed  eye 

Fated  to  follow  wheresoe'er  she  fly. 

O  happy  soul !  led  only  by  the  voice 

That    bids    her    turn    to    some    more    wondrous 

choice  ! 

Upon  the  herby  field  she  sets  her  foot ; 
Staying,  she  listens  there  to  creeping  root ; 
Blesses  the  opening  bud,  and  smells  the  mould, 
Sinks  in  a  fern-bed  where  faint  coils,  unrolled, 
17 


VV3VB.A 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


Morning   Etch  on  the  air  a  curving  tracery 

in  Camp.   jsjone  but  tjje  morning's  postulant  may  see. 

She  steals  great  gospels  from  a  sphere  of  dew, 
That  little  globe  where  ancient  lore  lies  new  ; 
And  while  her  tenderest  fibres  wake  and  stir, 
The  realm  o'er  which  she  reigns  reconquers  her. 
Prostrate  she  falls  in  worship  high  and  lone ; 
She  swoons  with  rapture  by  the  altar-stone. 
God  and  the  world,  —  they  are  the  dual  Great, 
And  through  her  dust  are  they  communicate. 


I 


RED    MAGIC 

SOLD  myself  to  the  fearsome  things  in  the 

wood  ; 

And  now  am  I  fled  from  their  bitter  cherishing. 
I  gave  myself  for  a  drop  of  the  thickened  blood 
That  dabbles  and  drips  on  the  innocent  emerald 

ring 
Round  the  rotting  branch  where  the  owl  sits  dim 

in  the  dark 
And  hoots,  for  the  winds  to  hark. 

I  thought  the  blood  of  the  wood  was  the  red  of  life, 
And  if  one  of  the  fearsome  things  should  but  make 

it  flow, 

A  touch  would  stir  up  my  soul  into  fiery  strife, 
And  rapture  enwrap  it,  and  I   should   speed  me 

and   go 

To  sail  in  the  feathery  air,  and  dart  and  leap 
Where  pools  in  the  shadow  sleep. 
18 


And  now  have  I  risen  alone  from  that  sullen  hour,     Red 
And  crawled  forth  into  the  sun  where  it  used  to  fall  ;     Magic. 
Darkened  and  dumb,  I  feel  about  for  the  flower 
That  yesterday  bloomed  alive.    But  I  dare  not  call, 
Lest  the  fearsome  things  should  troop  and  gather 

again, 
To  shriek  at  my  mask  of  pain. 

MIST 

FLEETING  across  the  flood 
Of  the  glimmering  lake  to  the  wood, 
Look  how  it  wavers  and  gleams,  — 
Diaphanous  vesture  of  dreams  ! 


o 


WHEN  DAYS  ARE  LONG 

IH,  time  is  so  short,  so  short  ! 
How  would  wise  thrift  employ  it  ? 
Oh,  the  hoard  of  the  hour  is  so  small ! 
How  shall  man  and  a  maiden  enjoy  it? 
Sweetheart,  by  flinging  an  arm 
Round  the  neck  of  the  summer  weather  ; 
On  the  longest  road  under  smilingest  sky, 
Footing  it  gayly  together. 

REVELATION 

DOWN  in  the  meadow,  sprent  with  dew, 
I  saw  the  Very  God 
Look  from  a  flower's  limpid  blue, 
Child  of  a  starveling  sod. 

'9 


THE   HEART   AND   LOVE 

(An  Echo.) 

COME  into  my  garden-ground,  O  thou  sweet 
of  my  soul,  come  in  ! 
In  the  glamour  and  dusk  of  the  dawn,  ere  the  long 

bright  hours  begin, 
While  the  flowers  are  still  in  their  sleep,  though 

all  their  breath  is  astir 
With    fragrance  far-reaching    yet   faint,    like    the 

spirit  of  musk  and  of  myrrh. 
Come  in,  yea,  and  look  thou  alone  on  the  dawn- 
flowers  blossoming. 
Come,  bathe   thee  in   purpling   mists,   while  the 

rhythmical  censers  swing, 
And  listen,  while  songs  more  sweet  than  the  heart 

of  man  can  devise  — 
Ay,  the   very   spirit  of  all   the   songs  —  like   an 

angel  choir  shall  rise. 
Oh,  what  can  I  promise  thee,  love,  in  my  garden 

far  and  lone, 
When  the  sounds  of  the  night  are  still,  and  the 

flower-sweet  breeze  hath  flown  ? 
In  my  garden  lone  and  far,  curved  over  by  fading 

skies, 
Till  only  the  stars  know  well  where  the  bower 

of  its  beauty  lies  ! 
For  thee,  for  thee  was  it  sown  in  the  spring  of 

the  heart's  desire, 
Sown  in  earth  grown  black  and  rich  under  touch  of 

the  master  fire  ;  20 


For  thee  was  its  bosom  stirred  by  a  thousand  seeds     The 


concealed, 
Germinant  growth  of  the  under-world,  the  riotous    Love. 

weft  and  yield 
Of  a  royal  will  and  a  fortunate  day  and  the  swing 

of  a  lavish  hand. 
Oh,  come  and  reign  over  it,  lord  of  the  rose  which 

is  lord  of  my  waiting  land  ! 
Sown  for  thee,  loveliest  !   yet  in  the  sowing  was 

never  a  thought  of  thee  ; 
For  ever  the  lips  of  the  gods  are  shut  under  mask 

of  their  mystery, 
And  ever  the  reason  of  travailing  birth  and   the 

portent  of  days  to  be 
Are  hid  in  the  leaves  of  the  timeless  book  that 

only  the  One  may  see,  — 
The  One  unknown  and  yet  knowing  all,  Who  said 

when  the  years  were  new  : 
"  Let  the  bud  of  delight  in  a  garden  grow,  and 

be  sprent  with  the  mystical  dew. 
Let  it  take  full  joy  of  the  wanderer  wind,  let  it  lie 

under  bountiful  rain, 
And  respond  to  the  touch  of  the   ministrant  sun, 

in  a  passion  of  fervor  and  pain. 
Let   one  only,  the  master   of  beauty,    return,  in 

response  to  the  challenging  cry  : 
'  Come  into  my  garden-ground,  O   love,  for  the 

soul  of  the  dust  am  I  !  '  " 


21 


LIFE 


THE  shadow  on  a  sunlit  leaf, 
By  other  leaflets  laid  thereon  : 
O  fickle  shade,  so  fair,  so  brief! 
For  with  the  sun  —  thou  'rt  gone. 


PAGAN  PRAYERS 

YOU  that  hold  the  world, 
Uphold  me. 
You  that  light  the  sun, 
Make  me  see. 
Bear  with  me  my  sorrow  ; 
Help  me  meet  the  morrow, 
Patiently. 

O'er  road  we  may  know  not 
To  end  we  must  fear  not, 
Guide  us,  O  Mighty  One ! 
March  with  us,  heroes  ! 


YESTERDAY 

TO  remember  the  tender   foreknowledge   of 
morn,  at  the  even, 

To   yearn  for  the  treasures    desired  upon  earth, 
when  in   heaven, 

22 


Were  as  easy  as  seeking  to  joy  in  love-bliss  and     Yester- 
love-token  <*<&- 

When  a  ripple  has  passed  and  the  face  of  the  dream 
has  been  broken. 


NO  ANSWER 

WHAT  does  it  mean  when  love  grows  cold  ? 
That  morning  dreams  of  youth  were  sold 
For  barter  baser  yet  than  gold  ? 
That  God  Himself  is  waxing  old  ? 
Nay,  ask  me  rather  whence  we  draw  our  human 

breath, 
Or  what  is  death. 


AN  INVOCATION 

O  MELODY!  O  Melody! 
For  whom  the  Muses  sing  and  sigh, 
And  bind  their  loves  in  choric  call, 
Till  all  Olympus  lies  in  thrall  ; 
Oh,  hither  fly,  and  wait  thou  nigh 
While  our  dull  discords  vainly  die  ! 

O  siren  old,  in  witching  old, 
Take  up  again  thy  harp  of  gold, 
And  strike  the  strings  in  moving  strain 
With  echoing  fall  and  soft  refrain  ; 
Then  loud  and  bold  the  measure  hold 
Till  some  new  tale  is  nobly  told. 
23 


Anlnvo-   Yet  if  thou  fear  these  valleys  drear, 
canon.        Qur  su}jjecj  springs  and  pastures  sear, 
Lend  from  above  one  lyric  note 
To  pierce  and  rend  our  hollow  rote  ; 
That  we  who  hear  with  tuned  ear, 
May  dream  we  wake  and  thou  art  near. 


THE   RETURN 

THE  night  was  clear,  without  a  star, 
For  that  the  moon  usurped  the  sky. 
Dream-ridden  surges  moaned  in  sleep  ; 
The  trees  were  still,  nor  sighed  reply. 
Without  a  sound  I  flitted  forth  ; 
I  knew  my  element,  the  air, 
And  all  the  swift  intelligence 
Create  to  flash  and  darkle  there. 

The  faintest  sun  was  not  too  far 

To  mark  the  track  foreknowledge  led. 

My  limbs  were  light  as  vapor  blown ; 

At  last  I  lived  in  being  dead. 

Though  star-dust  sowed  the  vault  of  time, 

Soul-dust  was  I,  and  not  afraid  ; 

A  thousand  suns  might  wheel  and  flash, 

But  course  like  mine  need  not  be  stayed. 

On,  on,  I  fled  o'er  windless  wastes, 
Heeding  no  longer  day  nor  night. 
I  heard  the  singing  of  the  spheres, 
Their  rhythmic  roll  attuned  my  flight. 
24 


I  hovered  over  sombre  voids ;  The 

And  when  a  star  dropped  into  space,  Return. 

I  fell  with  it,  but  yet  more  swift, 
Rapt  winner  of  a  timeless  race. 

Through  hail  I  flashed  and  smothering  sleet, 

To  bathe  me  in  a  flaming  sun, 

As  'twere  the  milk  of  Paradise  : 

But  all  unspent,  my  bliss  had  done. 

A  thought,  a  breath ;  I  was  recalled, 

To  speed  unswerving  to  the  door 

Where  joy  was  wont  to  stay  my  feet, 

But  where  their  tread  would  sound  no  more. 

Alas !  the  garden  bloomed  the  same, 
Though  not  one  rose  had  ruth  for  me ; 
Sorrow  lay  not  on  any  bush, 
Nor  stirred  the  leaf  of  lightest  tree. 
The  house  lay  wrapped  in  decent  gloom, 
An  odorous  darkness  vainly  sweet, 
Where  one  sat  watching  by  the  bed, 
Her  tears  fast  falling  o'er  my  feet, 

And  one  stood  weeping  by  its  head. 
But  one  in  silence  sat  apart. 
She  did  not  hear  my  joyous  hail  ; 
I  heard  the  beating  of  her  heart. 
"  Love  !  love  ! "    I  cried,    "  rejoice  with  me  !  " 
But  still  her  dry  lips  would  not  move. 
I  kissed  her  sudden  on  the  mouth. 
I  knew  no  word  but   "  Love  !  "   and   "  Love  !  " 
25 


The  All  night  we  watched  together  there  ; 

Return.     Strange  tryst  we  kept,  my  love  and  I ! 
My  hurrying  heart  was  hot  with  words 
To  teach  her  what  it  is  to  die. 
Yet,  barred  within  her  beauty's  cell, 
She  might  not  hear,  she  might  not  see  ; 
I  was  alive,  but  not  to  her, 
And  all  her  soul  lay  dead  to  me. 

Ah,  but  the  end  is  yet  to  read ! 
When  the  door  opens  at  her  plaint, 
When  she  hath  set  one  forward  step, 
With  bliss  foredone,  with  languor  faint,  • 
Closer  than  dreams  of  me  have  been, 
More  dear  than  her  immortal  breath, 
My  breast  shall  be  her  porch  of  heaven, 
My  face  her  visioning  of  death. 


FOREWARNED 

T)SYCHE  hath  found  her  Cupid  out : 
J7  And  wilt  thou  find  out  me  ? 
Then  keep  high  heart  and  courage  stout, 
For  thou  'It  not  see  me  ringed  about 
With  Cupid's  bravery. 

The  god's  true  splendor,  though  unguessed, 
Would  well  illume  the  night ; 
But  foolish  Psyche  might  not  rest 
Till  it  should  also  bear  the  test 
Of  baser  candle-light. 

26 


Thou  art  not  Psyche,  dearest  maid  ?  Fore- 

Nor  I  the  god  of  love. 

Read,  then,  the  riddle  unafraid  : 

But  let  thy  questing  heart  be  stayed, 

Nor  seek  her  bliss  to  prove. 

Give  me  the  universe  to  roam, 

The  sky  for  breathing-space, 

And  though  my  will  were  thistle-foam, 

No  breeze  but  yet  would  blow  me  home 

To  thine  adored  embrace. 

But  if  thou,  loving,  prove  the  spy, 
Alas  !  what  wilt  thou  see  ? 
Flaws  fitted  to  affright  the  eye 
In  one  who  still  hath  wings  to  fly, 
Heart- wounded,  and  yet  —  free  ! 


A   WEST-COUNTRY   LOVER 

THEN,   lady,  at  last  thou   art    sick    of  my 
sighing. 
Good-bye ! 

So  long  as  I  sue,  thou  wilt  still  be  denying  ? 
Good-bye ! 

Ah,  well !  shall  I  vow  then  to  serve  thee  forever, 
And  swear  no  unkindness  our  kinship  can  sever  ? 
Nay,  nay,  dear  my  lass!  here's  an  end  of 

endeavor. 
Good-bye ! 

27 


A  West-     Yet  let  no  sweet  ruth  for  my  misery  grieve  thee. 


The  man  who  has  loved  knows  as  well  how  to 

leave  thee. 
Good-bye  ! 
The  gorse  is   enkindled,  there  Js  bloom   on  the 

heather, 

And  love  is  my  joy,  but  so  too  is  fair  weather  ; 
I  still  ride  abroad,  though  we  ride  not  together. 
Good-bye  ! 


My  horse  is  my  mate ;  let  the  wind  be  my 
master. 

Good-bye ! 

Though  Care  may  pursue,  yet  my  hound  follows 
faster. 

Good-bye  ! 

The  red  deer's  a- tremble  in  coverts  unbroken. 

He  hears  the  hoof-thunder  ;  he  scents  the  death- 
token. 

Shall  I  mope  at  home,  under  vows  never  spoken  ? 

Good-bye  ! 


The  brown  earth  *s  my  book,  and  I  ride  forth  to 
read  it. 

Good-bye  ! 

The  stream  runneth  fast,  but  my  will  shall  out- 
speed  it. 

Good-bye  ! 

28 


I  love  thee,  dear  lass,  but  I  hate  the  hag  Sorrow.    A  West- 
As  sun  follows  rain,  and  to-night  has  its  morrow, 
So    I  '11    taste    of  joy,    though    I    steal,   beg,   or 

borrow ! 
Good-bye  ! 


DESTINY 


RICH  in  all  beauties  art  thou,  love, 
Save  those  wherein  high  souls  delight. 
My  slavish  sense,  my  shuddering  will, 
Contend  o'er  thee  in  scornful  fight. 

Ah,  many  a  year  I  vainly  sought 
Love's  nobler  largess,  joy  or  woe  ! 
Now,  sick  and  shamed,  I  bear  his  dart : 
Like  Baldur,  slain  with  mistletoe. 


LOVE  DENIED 

DIAN  looked  down  from  hovering  height,  and 
saw  Endymion  sleeping, 
The  viny  shadows  playing  round,   and  o'er  his 

forehead  creeping  : 

Tendril  displacing  dewy  curl,  and  curl    succeed 
ing  leaf. 

O  lavishment  of  loveliness,  that  light  should  be  so 
brief! 

29 


Love          Creeping    through  sedge    and    thorny   wild,    her 
Denied.          darling  to   discover, 

Almost  afraid  of  her  own  shade,  came  the  chaste 

maiden-lover ; 
And    when,    equipped   with    hunter's    craft,  her 

jealous  gaze  had  found  him, 
Within  the  charm  of  her  white  arm  she  fain  had 
dipt  and  bound  him. 

"Oh,"  sighed  she,  in  the  lonesome  joy  of  that 

subduing    rapture, 
"  That  I  might  seal  the  eyes   of  Night,  and  his 

fair  beauties  capture  ! 
What   were   the  wrong   to   smooth  one  curl   his 

radiant  brow  adorning  ? 
Nay,  if  I  pressed  his  mouth  to  mine,  were  't  meet 

for  Juno's  scorning  ?  " 

Ah  !  at  the  word,  her  cheeks  were  dyed,  a  pretty 

redness  turning ; 
She  smote  her  brow,  in  sweet  despite,  to  find  it, 

too,  was  burning. 
And   then,    so    cruelly    and    hard    did    her    pure 

thoughts  deride  her, 
She    blushed    again,  until    it    seemed    the    Morn 

walked  there  beside   her. 

"  Love-tokens  pale,"  she  murmured  low,  "  when 

love  's  not  of  the  spirit ; 
And  who  would  snatch  at  body's  joy,  a  base  thing 

doth  inherit !  " 

30 


With  that,  her  passion  cold  at  heart,  she  fled  to    Love 
upper  ether,  Denied. 

And  left  Endymion  sleeping  on,  the  Dark  and  he 
together. 


ON  PILGRIMAGE 

(A.D  1250.) 

MY  love  hath  turned  her  to  another  mate. 
(O  grief  too  strange  for  tears  !) 
So  must  I  make  the  barren  earth  my  home ; 
So  do  I  still  on  feeble  questing  roam, 
An  outcast  from  mine  own  unfriending  gate, 
Through  the  wan  years. 

i 

My  love  hath  rid  her  of  my  patient  heart. 
(Wake  not,  O  frozen  breast  !) 
Yet  still  there's  one  to  pour  her  oil  and  wine, 
And  all  life's  banquet  counteth  most  divine. 
O  Thou,  Who  also  hadst  in  joy  no  part, 
Give  me  Thy  rest ! 

What  strength  have  I  to  cleanse  Thy  stolen  tomb, 

For  Christendom's  release? 

Naked,  at  last,  of  hope  and  trust  am  I, 

Too  weak  to  sue  for  human  charity. 

A  beggar  to  Thy  holy  shrine  I  come. 

Grant  me  but  peace  ! 

31 


MAGDALEN 

MINE  eyes  are  shut,  their  fringes  hid 
Beneath  the  night's  black  coverlid. 
No  fiery,  swift  proclaiming  spark 
Pursues  thy  flight  across  the  dark. 

Yet  if  their  burning  sear  thee  still, 
'T  is  God's  high  justice,  not  my  will. 
If  He  avenge  my  wrong  and  shame, 
Am  I  to  blame  ?     Am  I  to  blame  ? 


A  FAREWELL 

THOU  wilt  not  look  on  me  ? 
Ah,  well !  the  world  is  wide  ; 
The  rivers  still  are  rolling  free, 
Song  and  the  sword  abide  ; 
And  who  sets  forth  to  sail  the  sea 
Shall  follow  with  the  tide. 

Thrall  of  my  darkling  day, 

I  vassalage  fulfil  : 

Seeking  the  myrtle  and  the  bay, 

(They  thrive  when  hearts  are  chill !) 

The  straitness  of  the  narrowing  way, 

The  house  where  all  is  still. 


TO  CIRCE 

NO,  Lady,  I  '11  not  sup  with  thee, 
Lest  bread  should  be  denied. 
I  '11  sit  down  here  beside  my  barren  hearth, 
And  feed  on  pride. 

Thy  wine  makes  merry  company  ; 
But  freed  from  hilding  fears, 
I  better  love  the  honorable  salt 
Of  mine  own  tears. 

Yet  the  bright  beaming  of  thy  look 

Might  still  my  heart  unbar, 

If  through  this  rifted  thatch  there  had  not  gleamed 

One  cold,  clear  star. 


RENEWAL 

THOU,  whose  short  path  lay  one  with  mine, 
Did  not  our  days  fleet,  velvet-shod  ? 
We  proved  the  stars,  and  probed  the  deep  ; 
We  wondered  o'er  the  One  called  God. 
It  seemed  discourse  could  have  no  end, 
So  sweet  it  was  to  find  a  friend. 

Now,  lacking  thee,  I  lack  delight, 
While  hours  go  crawling,  fretting  by. 

Thought  cries  in  vain,  and  grieving,  finds 
No  kindly  voice  to  give  reply. 
33 


Renewal.    To  meet,  touch  hands,  and  part  again, 
Was  joy's  one  drop  in  seas  of  pain. 

Thou  shallow  Self,  thy  wailings  set 

In  minor  key  to  mournful  tune ! 
Roses  still  blossom,  though  they  fade, 

And  every  year  renews  her  June. 
On  Nature's  page  is  graven  deep, 
"  To  have  and  love  is  not  to  keep." 

But  not  to  lose.      O  day,  be  swift, 
When,  wandering  with  joyous  feet 

Through  worlds  where  dreams  come  warm  to  life, 
In  some  fair  garden  we  may  meet  ! 

And  "  Thou  ?  "  will  one,  all  gladness,  cry  : 

The  other,  well  contented,  "I  !  " 


THE    MESSAGE 

THROUGH    the    silence    and   midnight  of 
life 

Thy  soul  to  my  soul  I  heard  calling, 
In  bugle-notes,  golden  and  long, 
In  pearl-drops  of  melody  falling. 
Then  in  joy  I  rose  up  from  my  rest ; 
My  heart  stilled  its  beating  to  hear  thee. 
With  swiftness  I  sandalled  my  feet 
That  quivered  with  haste  to  be  near  thee. 
34 


Thy  message  cleft  night  like  a  star.  The 

"Seek  thou,"  it  sang,  "desolate  places. 

Go  whisper  in  hungering  ears 

And  smile  upon  death-darkened  faces. 

I  am  thine,  thou  art  mine,"  cried  thy  soul, 

"  Yet  heed  me,  and  pause  not  nor  wonder 

If  God  set  our  faces  apart, 

And  hold  us  a  lifetime  asunder." 


Then  my  heart  rose  in  altar-flames  high  ; 
It  thrilled  with  the  whiteness  of  burning. 
My  breath  was  the  incense  of  prayer, 
Heavy-sweet  with  pure  passion  and  yearning. 
"Thou  art  mine,  I  am  thine,"  cried  my  soul, 
"  Then  thus  do  I  hold  and  I  heed  thee  : 
It  is  more  to  obey  thy  decree 
Than  lament  lest  I  lack  or  I  need  thee." 


The  pathway  appointed  I  tread, 
Unheedful  of  pain  or  of  pleasure  ; 
Yet  still  with  thy  step  I  keep  time, 
And  God  Himself  marks  us  the  measure. 
Thy  face  fronts  the  dawn,  mine  the  west ; 
But  farthest,  we  still  are  the  nighest : 
For  souls  are  but  married  anew 
When  wedded  alone  to  the  Highest. 


FAMINE 


AT  last  she  learns  that  love  can  die; 
That  ashes  bank  the  grave  of  fire 
Enkindled  from  the  living  sun, 
To  make  her  faith  a  funeral  pyre. 

White  wonder  clothes  her  stony  glance ; 
She  shudders  that  Eternal  Right 
Could  so  betray  a  seed  to  birth, 
And  let  it  die  for  lack  of  light. 

Like  one  avowed  the  bride  of  death, 
Unmurmuring,  she  sits  apart : 
Veiling,  with  snow  of  patient  looks, 
The  unfed  hunger  of  the  heart. 


ON    THE   FIELD 

YES,  that  last  blow  struck  through 
Corselet  and  chain  and  all ; 
Where  pain's  hot  lightning  flew, 
Now  the  red  droppings  fall. 

You  the  cold  heavens  send 
In  the  hour  of  my  thirsty  need  — 
Help  me,  O  soldier-friend, 
To  cover  how  I  bleed ! 

36 


EDWIN    BOOTH 

"  Ay,  every  inch  a  king!" 

NOW  is  the  night,  foreshadowed  of  our  fears  ; 
The  curtain  falls,   the   lights   fade,   one   by 

one. 

Darkness  and  silence  from  the  widowed  stage 
Proclaim  the  great  and  final  act  is  done. 
Vain  are  the  thundered  plaudits  of  the  house, 
The  laurel  wreath,  the  players'  loud  acclaim  ; 
Thou  art  grown  dumb  to  clamoring  for  response, 
Deaf  to  the  ringing  of  thy  jewelled  name. 
Thy  crystal  soul  hath  traversed  back  the  pathway 
whence  it  came. 

They  who  the  virtues  of  the  mighty  dead 
Enwrap  in  majesty  of  broidered  verse, 
Call  upon  Nature,  in  her  solitude, 
His  beauties  and  her  sorrow  to  rehearse. 
The  forest  and  the  field,  the  fitful  wind 
They  challenge,  and  the  ever-sounding  wave, 
To  seek  his  spirit  in  the  vast  afar, 
And  drop  their  dews  on  his  enriched  grave, 
Crowning  the  poet's  lyric   woe  with  some  for- 
lorner  stave. 

Greater  than  all  the  universe  of  space 
The  mimic  world  thou  didst  thyself  create  : 
The  subtile  sphere,  compact  of  passion's  breath, 
Where  Nature  bade  thee  hold  imperial  state ! 
37 


Edwin  There  shall  the  mourning  garments  be  outworn ; 

Booth.  There  shall  the  desolate  their  dirges  sing  . 

No  princeling  may  ascend  the  vacant  throne, 
Laying  new  triumph's  gall  to  sorrow's  sting. 
"The  King  is  dead !"    we  cry,  but  nevermore, 
"  Long  live  the  King  !  " 


Of  all  the  stops  of  mortal  harmony 
Master  thou  art  forever,  though  in  death. 
The  melancholy  of  the  Dane  is  thine, 
The  poisonous  blighting  of  lago's  breath. 
Thou  didst  take  on  foul  Richard's  humpbacked 

soul, 

And  clasp  it  close,  yet  do  thine  own  no  wrong : 
As  't  were  the  mantle  of  Sir  Caradoc, 
Unerring  witness  sung  in  ancient  song, 
Destined  to  prove   the  pure  of  heart  more  pure, 

the  strong  more  strong. 

Slave  of  self- conjured  evil,  Cawdor's  thane! 
The  jester,  bitter- hearted,  striking  home  ! 
The  fox-robed  cardinal,  creating  France, 
And  launching    forth    the    curse    of  sovereign 

Rome! 

Gallant  Don  C^sar,  lord  of  ragged  lace ! 
These  wert  thou  in  their  turn,  and  sorrow-blind, 
Alas !  thou  wert  the  doited  father,  too, 
Pelted  by  heaven,  and  stabbed  by  human  kind  : 
Heartbreakingly  confest,  "  I  am  not  in  my  perfect 

mind!" 

38 


Such  was  thy  Protean  form,  but  what  wert  thou  ?    Edwin 
A  changing  cloud,  content  to  borrow  hue  Booth. 

From  lordly  sun-rays  that  o'errule  it  quite, 
And  thus  with  color  and  with  form  endue  ? 
Nay,  rather  let  the  time's  remembrancing, 
When  it  doth  con  anew  thy  mortal  span, 
Ignore  thine  art,  if  such  despite  may  be, 
But  bow  in  awe  before  thy  nature's  plan, 
Crying  with  trumpet  tone,  to  alien  ears,  "  This 


was  a  man 


I  » 


Thine  was  the  guilt  of  filching  heavenly  fire  ; 
Wherefore  Jove's  eagle  fed  upon  thy  heart. 
Yet  never  word  nor  strangled  cry  betrayed 
Responsive  agony  beneath  the  smart. 
A  thousand  hovering  spectres  menaced  thee          .  % 
Bound,  by  eternal  fiat,  on  the  rock 
Of  mortal  languishment :   yet  unappalled 
As  gallant  bird  beneath  the  tempest  shock  ; 
For  still  thy  soul  soared  free,  thy  silence  met  each 
hideous  mock. 

And  can  such  glory  pass  ?     Nay,  thus  thou  art, 
Where'er  in  world  diviner  thou  dost  walk, 
Mated  with  love  celestial,  that  doth  spring, 
Fragrant  and  fair,  from  life's  divided  stalk. 
But  we  who  knew  thee  may  not  cease  to  mourn 
The  moment's  grief,  the  time's  perpetual  loss. 
Not  ours  to  pluck  from  thine  engraved  name 
Oblivion's  cold  and  memory-choking  moss  : 
Blest  are  we  for  so  noble  sake  to  bear  affliction's 
cross.  39 


Edwin  Henceforward  nevermore  may  Denmark's  Prince 

Booth.  pace  through  his  tragic  hour  in  sabled  pride 

But  thou,  the  sceptre's  rightful  heir,  wilt  walk, 
Eclipsing  all  his  grandeur,  by  his  side. 
And  dally  as  we  may  with  pageantry 
Wherein  some  newer  actor  plays  a  part, 
The  scene  will  fade,  while  thine  enshadowed 

form 
Doth   from    the    slumbrous    aisles    of   memory 

start,  — 

Again  the  lost  but  ever-reigning  monarch  of  the 
heart. 

Farewell !  farewell  indeed  !     But  take  with  thee 
Our  true  allegiance  to  that  orient  land,  — 
The  laurels  and  the  rosemary  of  life 
Lying  unnoted  in  thy  nerveless  hand. 
Take  with  thee,  too,  our  bond  of  gratitude, 
That  in  a  cynic  and  a  tattling  age 
Thou  didst  consent  to  write,  in  missal  script, 
Thy  name  on  the  poor  players'  slandered  page, 
And  teach  the  lords  of  empty  birth  a  king  may 
walk  the  stage. 


HORA   CHRISTI 

SWEET  is  the  time  for  joyous  folk 
Of  gifts  and  minstrelsy  ; 
Yet  I,  O  lowly-hearted  One, 
Crave  but  Thy  company. 
40 


On  lonesome  road,  beset  with  dread,  Hora 

My  questing  lies  afar. 
I  have  no  light,  save  in  the  east 

The  gleaming  of  Thy  star. 

In  cloistered  aisles  they  keep  to-day 

Thy  feast,  O  living  Lord  ! 
With  pomp  of  banner,  pride  of  song, 

And  stately  sounding  word. 
Mute  stand  the  kings  of  power  and  place, 

While  priests  of  holy  mind 
Dispense  Thy  blessed  heritage 

Of  peace  to  all  mankind. 

I  know  a  spot  where  budless  twigs 

Are  bare  above  the  snow, 
And  where  sweet  winter-loving  birds 

Flit  softly  to  and  fro ; 
There  with  the  sun  for  altar-fire, 

The  earth  for  kneeling-place, 
The  gentle  air  for  chorister, 

Will  I  adore  Thy  face. 

Loud,  underneath  the  great  blue  sky, 

My  heart  shall  psean  sing, 
The  gold  and  myrrh  of  meekest  love 

Mine  only  offering. 
Bliss  of  Thy  birth  shall  quicken  me ; 

And  for  Thy  pain  and  dole 
Tears  are  but  vain,  so  I  will  keep 

The  silence  of  the  soul. 

4* 


IN   EXTREMIS 

NOT  from  the  pestilence  and  storm  — 
Fate's  creeping  brood, — the  crouching  form 
Of  dread  disease,  and  image  dire 
Of  wrack  and  loss,  of  flood  and  fire ; 
Not  from  the  poisoned  fangs  of  hate, 
Or  death-worm  born  to  be  my  mate, 
But  from  the  fear  that  such  things  be, 
O  Lord,  deliver  me ! 


Fear  dogs  the  shadow  at  my  side ; 
Fear  doth  my  wingless  soul  bestride. 
In  the  lone  stillness  of  the  night 
His  whisper  doth  mine  ear  affright ; 
His  formless  shape  mine  eye  appalls  ; 
Under  his  touch  my  body  crawls. 
Now,  from  his  loathsome  mastery, 
O  Lord,  deliver  me  ! 


I  would  not  loose  me,  if  I  might, 
From  touch,  or  sound,  or  taste,  or  sight 
Of  all  life's  dread  revealing.      Nay, 
Were  I  God's  angel,  I  would  stay 
Here  on  this  clod  of  crucial  grief, 
And  learn  my  rede  without  relief; 
But  from  this  basest  empery 

And  last,  I  would  be  free. 

42 


My  fiend  hath  poisoned  even  the  cup  In 

Of  faith  and  love.      I  may  not  sup  Extremis, 

But  horror  grins  within  the  bowl, 
And  spectre  guests  affright  my  soul. 
Yea,  and  the  awful  Sisters  Three, 
Spinning  the  web  eternity, 
Have  lost  their  solemn  state,  and  wear 
The  Furies'  snakebound  hair. 


Out  of  the  jaws  of  hell  and  night, 
Lead  my  sick  soul,  O  Sovereign  Light ! 
Let  me  tread  shivering  through  the  cold, 
Despised,  forsaken,  hunted,  old, 
Unloved,  unwept,  beneath  the  ban 
Of  sharpest  anguish  laid  on  man  ;  — 
But  from  the  monster  foul  I  flee, 
O  God,  deliver  me ! 


KNIGHTHOOD    ETERNAL 

DELAY  no  more  by  altar-fires,  nor  stay  for 
prayer  and  vow  ! 
The  battle-ground's  beneath  thy  feet,  the  time  for 

steel  is  now. 
What  need  hast  thou  of  mortal  lance,  of  sword  or 

saving  shield  ? 

What  need  of  armor  burnished  bright,  by  alien 
hands  annealed  ? 

43 


Knight-     From  helm  to  greave,  thy  mail  shall  be  with  thine 
jjrff       ,          own  passion  wrought ; 

Tempered  with  heat  of  white  desire,  and  forged  by 

clanging  thought. 
Thy  sword  shall  be  the  naked  truth,  for  scabbard 

never  made ; 

Thy  shield  of  holy  chastity,  twin  foe  of  hacking 
blade. 


The  bowers  of  peace  are  cool  and  fair,  but  not  for 

thee  they  bloom ; 
What   wouldst    thou    earn,    O  lingerer    in    rcse- 

enshadowed  gloom  ? 
One  little  hour  of  joyance  vile,  of  base,  self-tainted 

breath ; 
Apples  with  ashes  at  the  core,  the  cup  that  tastes 

of  death. 


The    bugle  cries  for  thee  !     Arise,  and  face  the 

bannered  field,  — 
Vowed  evermore  to  fight  and  die,  but  not  to  live 

and  yield; 
Content  to  leave  the  day  unwon,  the  lust  of  fame 

forego, 
So  thou  mayst  march  one  step  in  time,  or  strike 

one  gallant  blow. 


44 


HEIMGEGANGEN 

WHAT  word,  O  my  daughter,  what  word 
from  the  damp  and  the  dark  ? 
I  put  down  mine  ear  to  the  grasses  that  brighten 

thy  roof- tree. 
Speak  thou,  while  I  hark. 

Good  cheer,  O  my  mother !  such  quiet  and  com 
forting  cheer. 

I  sit  here  all  day  and  I  spin,  in  my  little  dark 
corner. 

My  mother,  dost  hear  ? 

I  hear,  O  my  daughter !  but  how  can  my  heart 

understand  ? 
You  speak  not  of  stars  and  of  prophesied  rapture 

and  glories, 
Of  new  sky  and  land. 

Nay,  nay,  O  my  mother  !  how  should  I  ?  for  I 

am  alone, 
Spinning  my  thread  in  the  dusk  of  this  one  little 

corner, 
Marked  out  for  mine  own. 

I  dream  of  the  sky  and  the  star-beams,  of  infinite 

space ; 
Then  house  me  in  peace  —  yea,  in  peace!  —  in 

my  little  dark  corner  : 
I  have  gone  to  my  place. 

45 


SLEEP 


WITHDRAW  thee,  soul,  from  strife. 
Enter  thine  unseen  bark, 
And  sail  across  the  dark, 
The  silent  sea  of  life. 

Leave  Care  and  Grief,  feared  now  no  more, 
To  wave  and  beckon  from  the  shore. 

Thy  tenement  is  bare. 

Shut  are  the  burning  eyes, 
Ears  deaf  against  surprise, 
Limbs  in  a  posture  fair. 
The  body  sleeps,  unheeding  thee, 
And  thou,  my  sailing  soul,  art  free. 

Rouse  not  to  choose  thy  way  ; 
To  make  it  long  or  short, 
Or  seek  some  golden  port 
In  haste,  ere  springs  the  day. 
Desire  is  naught,  and  effort  vain  : 
Here  he  who  seeks  shall  ne'er  attain. 

Dream-winged,  thy  boat  may  drift 
Where  lands  lie  warm  in  light ; 
Or  sail,  with  silent  flight, 
Oblivion  cleaving  swift. 
Still,  dusk  or  dawning,  art  thou  blest, 
O  Fortune's  darling,  dowered  with  rest ! 


LETHE 


YOU  hope  we  shall  remember,  dear, 
The  happy  days  when  we  lived  here  ? 
Ah,  child,  what  shouldst  thou  know  of  fear, 
Whose  soul  is  like  a  rosy  leaf 
Floating  adown  the  stream  of  grief, 
The  velvet  edge  incurved,  a  boat 
Unwet  with  woe,  and  made  to  float 
Forgetful  of  the  flood  beneath, 
Whose  oozy  waters  smell  of  death  ! 
Turn  here  thy  gaze,  and  look  on  her, 
Thy  grandame,  who  wots  not  to  stir 
From  her  dull  corner ;   note  her  face 
With  wrinkles  lined  ;  seek  out  the  grace 
That  once  adorned  her  heyday  bloom, 
Rusted  and  worthless  in  that  tomb. 
And  think  you  she  would  greatly  care, 
If  God  should  make  her  smooth  and  fair, 
And  round  and  rosy,  eyes  alight 
With  youthful  pride  and  longing  bright, 
To  keep  that  record  of  the  years, 
And  trace  those  channels  made  by  tears  ? 
Saying :  "  In  this  I  wept  my  son  ; 
This  came  when  old  distrust  begun  ; 
That  line  was  cut,  O  cruel  spite  ! 
When  sweets  of  loving  took  their  flight." 

Nay,  then,  I  think  she  Jd  find  it  good 
To  stand  up  in  the  lustihood 
47 


Lethe.  Of  youthful  grace  and  new-sprung  pride, 

And  throw  her  worn-out  flesh  aside. 
And  so  shall  we,  if  in  the  day 
When  sins  and  ails  are  purged  away, 
The  cunning  record  of  the  brain, 
The  hates  and  madness,  grief  and  pain, 
The  murderous  deed  we  did  our  friend, 
The  scoff  for  which  there  Js  no  amend 
May  die  a  natural  death,  and  we 
Again  like  little  children  be ; 
And  caring  not  to  understand 
Our  birth  into  that  other  land, 
Roam  through  its  valleys,  hand  in  hand. 


THE   SILENT  WATCH 

FULL  armed  I  fought  the  Paynim  foe ; 
Now  palm  to  palm  I  lie, 
My  bed  of  stone,  my  covering 
The  minster's  vaulted  sky. 

Pilgrim  and  priest,  move  softly  here, 

On  vain  or  holy  quest. 
Let  me  sleep  on,  and  take  the  meed 

Of  my  appointed  rest. 

Let  me  sleep  on,  until  my  soul 

Hath  made  her  strong  again 
To  fight  the  fight  of  good  with  ill, 

Of  peace  with  mortal  pain. 
48 


For  one  day  there  shall  come  a  voice  The 

Sounding  from  sky  to  sea  : 
"Arise,  Sir  Knight,  before  My  face ! 

Now  have  I  need  of  thee." 


TRILBY 


O  LIVING  image  of  eternal  Youth! 
Wrought  with  such  large  simplicity  of  truth 
That,  now  the  pattern  's  made  and  on  the  shelf, 
Each  vows  he  might  have  cut  it  for  himself; 
Nor  marvels  that  we  sang  of  empty  days, 
Of  rank-grown  laurel  and  unpruned  bays, 
While  yet,  in  all  this  lonely  Crusoe  land, 
The  Trilby  footprint  had  not  touched  the  sand. 
Here's  a  new  carelessness  of  Titan  play. 
Here  's  Ariel's  witchery  to  lead  the  way 
In  such  sweet  artifice  of  dainty  wit 
That  men  shall  die  with  imitating  it. 
Now  every  man's  old  grief  turns  in  its  bed, 
And  bleeds  a  drop  or  two,  divinely  red ; 
Fair  baby  joys  do  rouse  them,  one  by  one, 
Dancing  a  lightsome  round,  though  love  be  done ; 
And  Memory  takes  off  her  frontlet  dim 
To  bind  a  bit  of  tinsel  round  the  rim. 
Dreams  come  to  life,  and  faint  foreshadowings 
Flutter  anear  us  on  reluctant  wings. 
But  not  one  pang,  nay,  though  't  were  gall  of  bliss, 
And  not  one  such  awakening  would  we  miss. 
O  comrades,  here's  true  stuff!  ours  to  adore, 
And  swear  we  '11  carve  our  cherry-stones  no  more. 
49 


DREAMS:   RUBINSTEIN'S  DANCE  OF  THE 
BAYADERES 


OH  for  the  tinkle  of  castanets  ! 
The  castanets ! 

When  the  twinkle  of  myriad  lanterns  frets 
The  languorous  air,  and  over  the  tents 
The  lantern  stars  are  burningly  bent. 
Chink!  Chink!  Chinkachink  ! 
See  every  link 

Of  my  burnished  bangles  beat  and  glance 
Over  my  wrist  where  the  pulses  dance ! 

So,  whirling  and  whirling  and  evermore  twirling, 
Still  tracing  the  track  of  the  sand-shower  in  swirl 
ing, 

When  the  wind  of  the  desert  is  minded  to  beat 
The  earth  into  rings  under  rhythmical  feet,  — 
All  my  hurrying  soul  sings  in  rhyme, 
And  the  body's  blood  marks  me  the  time. 

And  first  the  heads  nod,  — 
For  a  Sultan's  a  god; 
And  a  Vizier,  my  word ! 
He's  a  lord. 

See  the  smoke  of  their  dozing  upcurl ! 
See  them  watch  the  poor  girl 
Unwinding  the  smoke  from  its  fold  upon  fold, 
Silent  they,  and  so  cold  ! 
50 


But  look  !  now  the  twinkling  and  footing  are  faster,    Dreams. 

Oh,  faster  and  faster  ! 

The  body  sways  lower,  it  rests  on  the  air. 

(Ah,  fair!  but  a  maiden  is  fair!) 

The  air's  made  of  feathers  from  down  of  the  dove, 

And  the  arms  bent  above 

Are  the  arching  of  Allah's  great  dome  on  the  sky, 

Still  calling  the  pulses  to  fly 

Ever  fast  and  more  fast, 

Ere  the  moment  be  past. 

Then  the  Sultan  gives  over  his  solemn  puff-puff; 

And  as  to  the  Vizier,  why,  he  's  had  enough 

Of  tobacco,  and  wine,  and  the  solace  of  sweets. 

And  now,  while  the  music  advances,  retreats, 

Quite  into  the  mystical  ring  they  go, 

And  dance  like  dervishes  to  and  fro. 

And  up  and  down,  and  round  and  about, 

Like  Father  Time  in  the  Devil's  rout, 

With  beard,  and  hand,  and  foot  and  glance, 

The  Sultan  and  Vizier  are  one  with  the  dance. 

Ah,  well,  my  maidens,  we  're  something  worth, 

So,  sceptreless,  swaying  a  lord  of  the  earth  ! 

Hush  !  listen  !  the  music  's  falling,  falling  ! 

What  is  't  I  hear  calling, 

Over  the  reaches  of  wind-blown  plain, 

The  grave-sown  plain  ? 

(O  love  from  the  desert,  O  dawn  of  my  day, 

Slow,  slower,  ride  slower,  I  pray, 

That  the  dream  may  go  on 

Till  the  terrible  truth-telling  dawn, 

On  and  on  !) 

51 


Dreams.    So  comes  he,  with  thunder  of  galloping  feet, 
And  so  am  I  fleet 

To  fly  like  a  bird  to  his  stirrup,  his  knee, 
The  cup  of  his  welcome  to  be  ! 

God  !  the  east  is  blood-red, 
And  the  Sultan  is  lifting  his  head. 
Shall  I  smother  his  yawns  with  a  scream, 
And  tell  him  my  dream? 


THE   POET 

BEAUTY  en  wrapt  him  like  the  cell 
A  flower-cup  folds  about  the  bee  ; 
And,  leaning  o'er  her  honeyed  well, 
He  drank  Eternity. 

Then  ere  his  housing  felt  decay, 
Untired,  he  sought  the  outer  light : 
Winging  the  soul's  unfettered  way 
In  fragrance-laden  flight. 


THE   SLANDERER 


T 


HE  angels  of  the  living  God, 
Marked,  from  of  old,  with  mystic  name, 


O'erveil  their  vision,  lest  they  see 
One  sinner  prostrate  in  his  shame. 
52 


And  God  Himself,  the  only  Great,  The 

Preserves  in  heaven  one  holy  spot,  Slanderer. 

Where,  swept  by  purifying  flame, 
Transgression  is  remembered  not. 


Yet  thou,  O  banqueter  on  worms, 
Who  wilt  not  let  corruption  pass !  — 

Dost  search  out  mildew,  mould,  and  stain, 
Beneath  a  magnifying-glass. 


If  one  lies  wounded,  there  art  thou, 
To  prick  him  deeper  where  he  bleeds ; 

Thy  brain,  a  palimpsest  of  crime, 
Thy  tongue,  the  trump  of  evil  deeds. 


SEAWARD    BOUND 

GIVE  me,  in  this  inconstant  ebb  and  flow, 
Some  fixed  spot 

Where  I  may  plant  the  soul's  desire,  and  know 
It  withers  not. 


An  argosy,  swift  under  purple  sail, 
Down  sweeps  the  dawn, 

Unloading  all  her  spices  to  the  gale^ 
And  is  withdrawn ; 

53 


Seaward    Yet  no  more  sudden  than  the  jewelled  tower 
Bound.  And  front  of  day 

Falls  noiseless,  gem  from  gem,  at  twilight's  houra 
And  floats  away. 


Even  that  solemn  star,  the  beacon  blaze 

On  reefs  of  night, 
Wanes  to  a  close  when  most  the  shipwrecked  gaze 

Implores  her  light. 


Love  hath  his  funeral  rites  at  Fancy's  tomb ; 

And  Friendship's  gate 
Swings  from  within,  to  exiles  making  room 

For  newer  state. 


O  Thou,  the  Author  of  this  whirling  world, 

Create  for  me 
Some  sea  of  being  where  still  sails  are  furled 

Eternally  ! 


Or  in  that  houseless  mote,  my  drifting  heart, 

Raise  Thou  a  throne  : 
Spread  silence  round  Thee,  and  dwell  there  apart, 

Awful,  alone. 


54 


TEWKESBURY    ABBEY 

A  SORDID  town,  scarred  with  one  ruthless 
way, 

Where  thin-lipped  houses  mutter,  each  to  each  : 
A  squalid  folk,  delighting  to  betray 
And  jeer  the  pilgrim,  though  he  speak  their  speech  : 
Dull,  dusty  stage,  whereon  the  lust  of  power 
Spread  once  a  carpet  spun  from  brothers'  blood, 
And  squandered  there  that  little  precious  hour 
God  granted  men  to  buy  eternal  good. 
Ah,  but  in  forest  aisles  there  smileth  peace, 
Though  the  clouds  crack  above  that  cloistered  calm ; 
And  'neath  this  vaulting  doth  contention  cease, 
And  Memory  heal  herself  with  Beauty's  balm. 
Now  Margaret,  the  Lion-Heart,  may  trust 
Her  hunted  Prince  with  Clarence,  dust  to  dust. 


CONTENT 

OTIME,  thou  niggard,  thievish  almoner, 
Doling  thy  scanty  gold  to  snatch  it  straight ! 
No  longer  may  I  stay  to  supplicate, 
Though  for  the  coin  which  buys  me  blissful  myrrh 
And  frankincense  of  knowledge,  fee  to  her, 
The  Sibyl  Art,  that  even  now  so  late 
She  might  admit  me  at  her  mystic  gate, 
And  unto  me  perfection  minister. 
Not  all  thy  wealth  might  stead  me  ;  yet  I  know 
Now  at  the  last  where  Light  Eternal  lies : 
55 


Content.     There  on  the  green  of  forest  architraves, 

The  deepening  of  the  sun's  forgotten  glow, 
The  elusive  spirit  locked  in  Beauty's  eyes, 
The  thunder  of  apocalyptic  waves. 


THE  HEART'S  TRUE  CHOICE 

SHALL  I  condemn  thee  to  the  barren  hills 
And  dreary  vales  of  my  life's  heritage, 
Saying,  "  Because  I  love  thee,  thou  shalt  wage 
Perpetual  feud  with  joy,  nor  shun  those  ills 
That  hover  where  my  soul  perforce  fulfils 
Her  course  of  ancient  doom,  her  pilgrimage 
Of  soiled  intent,  of  weak,  abandoned  rage 
For  burnished  deeds,  of  ever-clashing  wills  "  ? 
Nay,  I  would  have  thee  led  by  fair  device 
To  deep  forgetfulness  of  grief  and  me. 
Fain  would  I  buy  thee,  at  my  sorrow's  price, 
Some  happy  isle,  ringed  round  with  smiling  sea, 
Where  thou  shouldst  pluck  pure  flowers  of  Paradise, 
And  drink  their  fragrance  everlastingly. 


THE   SPIRIT'S    HOUR 

"T    ET  me  be  free  from  thee,  beloved  dead !  " 

I  ^So  through  the  weary  day  aloud  I  cry, 
Seeking,  with  strained  and  agonizing  eye, 
Thy  shadow,  trembling  at  my  side  ;  thy  tread 

56 


With  hungry  ear  ;  thine  olden  touch  on  head         The 
Or  lips,  to  give  my  devil,  Doubt,  the  lie.  Spirit's 

"  Life  claims  me  ;  so  do  thou,  in  grace,  deny 
Such  dreams,  until  I  make  the  earth  my  bed  !  " 
Thus  do  I  mourn  by  day  ;  but  when  the  night 
Lights,  with  her  dusk,  the  all  of  mystery, 
My  spirit  quickens  till  thy  spirit  bright 
Enfloods  it.      Short  and  sure  the  road  to  thee. 
Earth  to   her  heaven   responds,   and,   vanquished 

quite, 
I  pray  the  silence,  "  Let  me  not  be  free  ! ' ' 


MAN    TO   WOMAN 

THOU  art  not  mine  nor  shalt  be !     This  I 
know 

While  the  prize  glimmers  in  my  happy  hold  ; 
For  though  Love  live  till  Memory  hath   grown 

old, 

And  lift  his  torch  to  light  the  way  we  go,  — 
Though,  equal-spanned,  our  thoughts  together  flow 
Like  wedded  rivers  winding,  fold  on  fold, 
Undried  in  sun  nor  stayed  by  winter  cold, 
Thou  art  not  mine,  howe'er  we  vow  it  so. 
Thy  soul  is  but  the  glass  wherein  I  see, 
With  blinded  flash  of  rapt  intelligence, 
Riven  ideals  in  new-born  beauty  laid 
On  the  bright  bosom  of  eternity  ; 
And  learn,  with  prescience  far  outstripping  sense, 
The  image  mine,  the  mirror  His  Who  made. 
57 


THE    UNSEEN   FELLOWSHIP 

OYE  mysterious  ministrants  of  night ! 
Will  ye  be  gone  because  the  specious  light 
But  seems  to  brighten  o'er  my  spirit's  dole? 
Ye  who,  untired,  have  tended  my  sick  soul 
With  soft,  slow  touches,  cooling  as  the  stream 
Delayed  in  strenuous  course  where  rushes  dream 
Of  frosty  norlands  or  the  tufted  pine  ; 
Who,  with  warm  whispers,  airs  incarnadine, 
Suffused  the  pallor  of  this  arid  room 
Till  the  rich  husk  of  midnight's  budded  bloom 
Broke  in  a  marigold  heaven  of  sunset  grace, 
And  vaporous  lightnings  lovelily  laid  bare 
Some  all-divine,  some  long-desired  face 
(Moon-pale  for  shadowing  of  the  aureoled  hair) 
Gleaming  and  bending  o'er  the  bars  of  pain, 
Pure  as  May  mist,  or  rainbow  after  rain. 

Ye  came  not  at  the  spirit' s  first  sharp  call ; 
But  when  of  dulling  death  she  most  was  fain, 
Then  did  your  wings  awake  this  iron  wall 
(Chamber  of  care,  dark  cell  of  brooding  Dis) 
Into  one  pulsing  reredos  of  bliss. 
And  your  still  counsel  was  the  litany 
Of  acquiescent  joy  in  pangs  to  be. 

For  ye  do  know  ! 

Whether  your  feet,  unled,  our  path  have  trod, 
Or  in  illuminating  whiteness  go 
Along  the  rapt,  mysterious  ways  of  God  ; 
58 


Whether,  in  learning  all,  ye  suffered  sore,-  The 

Or  be  of  those  who  serve  Him  evermore  f'ellwo- 

From  some  fine  trance  of  new-dissolved  sleep,         ship. 

Awaked  by  holy  chrism,  to  sacrament 

Of  equal  love  and  equal  wisdom  blent, 

And  forth,  to  do  His  bidding,  joyous  leap,  — 

Still  do  ye  break  with  us  our  stony  bread, 

And  share  our  bitter  wine,  in  vigils  dread. 

Heralds  of  sacred  silence  are  ye  all, 

Who,  knowing  many  things,  may  nothing  tell ; 

Who  may  not  whisper  :  "  This  is  ill  "  or  "  well," 

But  only  o'er  the  night's  abysses  call, 

Plangent  and  clear,  as  though  a  new  star  shone, 

"  Soul,  thou  art  not  alone  !  " 

Go  not,  O  faithful  !  with  the  mounting  sun 
Mortality's  tormenting  hath  not  ceased  ; 
Nay,  rather  be  her  heavy  toils  increased, 
For  noon's  sad,  upland  marge  lies  still  unwon. 
Walk  with  us,  lest  we  pluck  the  flaunting  flower 
Of  life's  delight,  to  paint  our  garlands  gay, 
Forgetting  gracious  herbs,  till  that  bleak  hour 
When  day's  great  king  hath  reft  his  court  away. 
Walk  with  us  !  or  if  still  supremely  blest, 
The  dawning  waft  ye  home,  to  bathe  your  wings 
With  dews  unspent,  or  sink  in  brooding  rest 
Where  some  bird-throated  cherub  softly  sings,  — 
Yet  should  the  Night  her  holy  fires  inflame 
To  sear  the  soul  anew,  in  one  Great  Name, 
When  we,  in  dross,  upon  that  altar  burn, 
As  He,  your  Lord,  doth  live,  ye  shall  return. 
59 


THE   FLIGHT    OF   THE   FAIRIES 

WHAT  serves  the  earth  for  sleep 
Is  but  a  dream-tower  builded  on  a  dream  : 
A  brooding  and  a  premonition  deep 
Of  all  that  will  be  when  the  fresh -sprung  stream 
Of  day's  delight  rolls  outward  from  the  sun, 
Hailing  a  new  world's  wonder  well  begun. 
Fuller  of  counsel  than  at  glowing  noon, 
She  lies  full-bosomed  to  the  sentient  moon 
(Unsatisfied  allurer  of  the  night) 
And  gives  in  beauty  what  she  takes  in  light. 
O  constant,  sweet  quiescence  of  repose  ! 
As  if  a  pollen-rich,  musk-hearted  rose 
Should  seal  her  petals,  in  recurrent  rest, 
So  to  shut  all  her  sweetness  in  her  breast, 
And  swing  there,  of  her  self-communing  fain, 
Secure  in  knowing,  "  I  shall  be  a  rose  again.  " 
One  night  there  was,  now  many  a  night  gone  by, 
When  Cynthia  set  her  broad  shield  in  the  sky, 
Symbol  of  peace  and  plenteous  content, 
And    dropped    herself  to   earth.      Where'er  she 

went 

The  dew  was  frosty  underneath  her  tread, 
And  all  the  boughs  grew  silver  overhead, 
Touched  by  a  glory  ye  may  never  guess 
Who  have  not  viewed  her  nearer  loveliness. 
She  might  not  stir  without  it.      As  when  watery 

air 

Cools  into  clouds  a  thousandfold  more  fair 
60 


Than  still  blue  ether,  so  her  amorous  leaping  The 

Bloomed  in  a  charm  ne'er  breathed  from  Cynthia    rffjf* 

sleeping.  °Fairies. 

Her  body's  presence  moved  pure  crystalline, 
And  even  her  radiant  shadow  seemed  to  shine. 

In  her  forsaken  hall,  one  iris  cloud 

Moved  regnant   in   her    place,    with    power    en 
dowed 

To  hew  the  underlying  plain 

In  shape  of  hill  and  valley,  and  again 

Loose  his  great  fancy  into  piling  waves 

Of  wind-stirred    light;     or    blocking   o'er    those 
caves 

Scooped  out  of  blackness,  where,  in  shadow  drest, 

Strange  mammoth  monsters  lay  in  uncouth  rest. 

These  beauties,  wrought  in  Titan  mood, 

Were  fit  for  sporting  of  some  giant  brood 

Who  take  the  earth  for  playmate,  and  in  spite 

At  her  dull  gentleness,  poor,  patient  wight ! 

Force  her  to  mask  and  mime  for  one  short  night. 

But  such  gigantic  pageantry  of  change, 

Through  which  her  moonlight  fantasy  did  range, 

Were  less  than  loveliness  to  those  still  spots 

Quite  overhung  with  leaves,  the  hidden  grots 

Where,  bowered  in  crowding  green, 

Bedecked  with  coral  set  in  mossy  sheen, 

And  glittered  round  by  grassy  lances  keen, 

Still  lordly  Oberon  the  great, 

Purest  of  fairy  blood, 

Doth  hold  his  whimsy  mood, 
61 


The  And  keep  his  elfin  state. 

offh*       ^n  ^s  n*£kt  breathed  a  sigh 
Fairies.      From  fringed  canopy 

And  wilding  forest  of  the  maidenhair. 

The  sigh  rose  into  song, 

Chanted  with  changing  measure,  and  erelong 

The  song  a  chorus  grew  and  filled  the  air, 

One  ecstasy  of  limpid  melody. 

"  Here  in  the  ferny  brake 

The  firefly  starts  awake. 

The  glowworm,  bold  night-lover, 

Moon  secrets  doth  discover. 

O  follower  of  the  night, 

Lend  me  thy  light  ! 

Star  of  the  oozy  dark, 

Give  me  thy  spark  ! 

Old  killjoy  owl  o'  the  bough 

On  linden-tree, 

Thy  topaz  eyes  shall  now 

Our  lanterns  be  ! 

Nay,  never  blink  and  blink, 

Nor  blinded  slink 

Back  into  covert !     Nay,  come  out, 

For  the  moon  's  about, 

And  we,  the  well-wishers,  the  lovers  of  all, 

Hold  thee  and  the  forest  in  thrall. 

Here  all  together 

We  '11  tweak  the  feather 

That  grows  o'er  thy  topaz  eyes. 

Thou  canst  not  flee  to  thy  sheltering  tree, 

For  we  too  can  rise, 

62 


And  our  chariot  flies,  The 

With  a  wish,  to  the  height 

Of  thy  craven  flight. 

Warders  we  of  the  wood, 

Lovers  we  of  the  flood, 

Gay  little  workmen,  whose  doing 

Is  ever  pursuing 

Of  fleet-footed  pleasure 

And  balmy-breathed  leisure. 

Gnat-Sting  and  Bat- Wing, 

Bloom-Button,   Pollen-Ring, 

Light  o'  the  Hour, 

Joyance  in  Flower, 

Honey-Tub,  Lily-Throat, 

Bee-Belly,  Robin' s-Note ! 

Here  we  come  by  the  dozens, 

Brothers,  gossips,  and  cousins. 

We  are  the  elves,  the  only 

Lovers  of  all  the  lonely 

Sweet  hidden  faces 

Of  far  forest  places." 

Ah  !  then  swept  Cynthia  forth  from  leafy  cover, 
And    all   the  ground   beneath   her   feet    bloomed 

over 

With  frosty  flowers  sprung  from  that  pure  vine 
Whose  root  is  moonbeam,  and  whose   leaf  doth 

shine 
Celestial  white.      The  maid  glanced  down  at  all 

this  glory, 

And  stayed  transfixed  to  read  her  footsteps'  story. 
63 


The  Forward  she  bent,  as  in  a  rapturous  dream  ; 

Flight        ^go  bowed  Narcissus  once  above  the  stream ; 

Fairies.      So  beauty  might  her  fairest  charms  discover 
And  wake  to  find  herself  her  own  best  lover) 
Then,  like  a  nymph  pursued,  she  straight  looked 

back, 

And  o'er  her  shoulder  gazed  upon  her  track. 
And  ever  where  she  looked  was  loveliness, 
And  ever  did  her  light  her  beauty  bless. 
There  as  she  paused,  her  limbs  and  radiant  dress 
Were  painted  on  the  leaves,  celestial  fair, 
Whiter  than  silver  clouds  on  crystal  air. 
Then  sudden  on  she  sped,  as  if  the  chase 
Drew  out  her  soul  in  one  swift  headlong  race. 
But  not  to  kill  the  deer  !     To  conquer  joy, 
And  chain  the  world  into  one  night's  employ. 
They  see  her !  ay,  they  see  !  the  elfin  band 
Troop  from  the  fern-grove,  hand  in  dainty  hand, 
And  in  the  shining  of  her  mantle's  shade, 
Tread  out  their  fairy  ring  ;   then  low  obeisance  paid 
To  her,  the  puissant  ruler  of  the  ample  hour, 
Break  into  song,  the  while  her  high-orbed  power 
Sinks  into  softness  all  were  fain  to  see, 
Lulled  with  emotion  at  their  harmony. 
Her  look  melts  into  love  divinely  tender ; 
Lower  she  bows  beneath  her  own  surrender. 
She  stands  pure  maiden,  stripped  of  high  estate ; 
They  are  so  little,  how  should  she  stay  great  ? 


So  the  fairies  sing,  and,  singing, 
Set  the  sylvan  glade  to  ringing  : 


"  We  know  thee  for  the  one  enwrapt  in  splendor  The 

Who  dost  inhabit  all  the  courts  of  night ;  ™f£* 

We  hail  thee  now,  the  guardian  sweet  and  tender,  fairies. 
Whose  fostering  foot  awakes  the  world  to  light. 

"  Ah  !  we  're  sick  of  rhyme  and  reason, 

Tired  are  we  of  time  and  season. 

This  is  no  verse  we  made  for  thee. 

We  stole  it,  queen,  from  a  bird  in  a  tree. 

Now  we're  tired  of  dragging  the  linked  chain 

Of  stiff-joint  rhyme,  by  might  and  main. 

Here  's  a  cobweb  !  trip  it,  Cynthia  ! 

Try  it,  dearest,  best  and  fairest ! 

Singing  's  but  a  heavy  pleasure  ; 

Join  us  now,  and  tread  a  measure ! 

Worship  sits  on  addled  eggs. 

All  our  loving 's  in  our  legs." 

And  round    and   round    they   haled,   the   hoiden 

crew, 
While    Dian    laughed    till    all    the    vale    thrilled 

through  ; 

Then  leaped  she  from  their  midst,  and  singing  ran 
Swifter  than  her  own  peace  at  foot  of  man. 
Sweet  baby  hootings  followed,  while  the  elves 
Rolled  in  the  murky  glade  to  still  themselves ; 
Tired  of  their  tricking,  sick  of  silly  fun, 
And  half  their  nightly  revels  not  begun. 
But  listen  !  hark !  swift  as  the  living  spark 
Launched  from  a  torchlight  through  the  dark, 
One  comes,  the  fairies'  messenger, 
And  all  the  leaves  with  listening  'gin  to  stir. 

65 


The  Softer  than  silence  his  tuned  whispering, 

Ff¥z*       Richer  than  waft  of  rhythmic-waving  wing. 
Fairies.      "  Hear  me,  O  forest  folk  ! 

Form  ye  in  mystic  ring, 

For  the  word  of  your  king. 

Omen  hath  threatened  us, 

Woe  's  in  the  air  ! 

We  of  the  fairy  brood 

Sicken  in  doleful  mood. 

Woe  's  in  the  air  ! 

The  fairy  honor  's  sold  ; 

Fairy  hearts  are  cold ; 

For  Oberon  the  king, 

Oberon  grows  old ! 

Ambition  hath  won  him. 

Mortal  doings  have  undone  him. 

He  hath  meddled,  mixed,  and  mated, 

Till  his  fairy  days  are  fated 

Still  like  mortal  hours  to  run, 

And  fail  with  every  waning  sun. 

Yea,  he  hath  built  with  mortals,  and  hath  striven, 

He  for  an  empty  gain,  they  for  their  heaven  ; 

Fought  for  them  with  main  and  might, 

Made  their  silly  wrong  come  right. 

With  their  false  ambition  fired, 

He  hath  striven  and  aspired 

Somewhat  like  a  man  to  grow,  — 

To  love,  to  suffer,  and  to  know. 

He  hath  tried  to  lift  it,  the  earth-burden, 

And  the  earth-curse  bears  upon  him  wearily ; 

No  more  wishing  brings  a  joyous  guerdon, 
66 


But  he  travails  drearily. 

He  hath  caught  the  man-disease,  the  mortal  pining, 

He  hath  drunk  the  cup  of  human  pain ;  Fairies. 

Henceforth  all  his  happiness  entwining 

In  the  root  that  springs  to  mortal  bane. 

Woe  hath  laid  hand  on  him, 

Blighting  and  bold. 

Now  Oberon  grows  old !  " 

Fear  fell  on  the  fairies. 

With  sibilant  hushes, 

The  low  wind  came  wailing 

In  gusts  through  the  bushes. 

Gray  fate  stalked  upon  them 

Through  deepening  gloom  ; 

The  lot  of  their  leader 

Foreshadowed  their  doom. 

"Where  now  shall  we  wander?" 

Sprite  called  unto  sprite. 

"  The  sting  of  despair 

Lies  in  olden  delight. 

Who  now  shall  redeem  us, 

If  Oberon  fail  us  ? 

What  might  shall  surround  us, 

If  earth-doom  assail  us  ? 

Now,  in  delight's  employ, 

Who  shall  plant  seeds  of  joy, 

Living  henceforth  to  bless 

Flowers  of  idleness? 

Wood-gods  defend  us ! 

Dian  befriend  us  !  " 

67 


The  «  Up  with  thee,  fairies! 

™fff       Flit  o'er  the  bracken 

of  the          _,       .      .    .  ,     . 

Fairies.      Ere  the  bright  heaven 
Her  dial  may  blacken. 
Seek  within  bloom  and  bud ; 
Float  on  the  under  flood ; 
Waken  the  sleeping  leaf ; 
Read  ye  the  ancient  rune, 
Potent  and  brief! 
For  this  moment  of  danger 
Was  aforetime  foretold ; 
And  the  wood-gods  have  left  us 
Their  counsel  of  old. 
Silence  your  wailing  tune ! 
Run  for  the  fairy  rune  !  " 

Stillness  enwrapped  the  wood.      The  fairy  tread, 
Fainter  than  raindrops,  beat  the  mosses'  bed. 
One  leaf  another  stirred,  in  counsel  tender, 
As  when  love  turns  to  love,  in  sweet  surrender. 
A  foredone  petal  fell,  and  kissed  the  earth, 
So  blessing  her  for  fostering  of  birth, 
And  her  long  nourishing  of  bloom  and  breath. 
Such  stillness  thrills  with  life,  and  knows  not  death  : 
The  silence  of  a  sleep  entranced  with  dreams, 
When  still  the  topmost  froth  of  joy  but  seems 
To  kiss  the  beaker  of  heart's  full  content. 
So  through  the  rapt  wood  mood  the  fairies  went 
Seeking,  aye  seeking  out  the  hidden  scroll 
Create  to  save  them  from  the  plague  of  soul. 

I  know  not,  I,  whether  the  quest  attended 
By  such  dumb  fear  with  that  one  night  was  ended. 
68 


Some  say  the  magic  word  was  swiftly  found  The 

Deep  in  the  bosom  of  that  circling  ground  offke 

Kept  chaste  and  fair  for  elfin  revelling.  Fairies. 

Some  say  his  dainty  majesty,  the  king, 
Came  on  it,  by  good  chance,  that  very  hour, 
Lurking  unguessed  in  all  its  mystic  power 
Within  the  network  of  a  living  leaf. 
Some  say  'twas  seen  on  Cynthia's  garment  hem, 
Wrought  all  in  curious  cipher,  gem  on  gem. 
Some  say  the  fairies,  wishing,  wished  it  straight 
By  dim  dream-porches  through  the  ivory  gate ; 
And  there  it  bloomed  before  them  rapturously, 
A  blossom  they  alone  might  touch  and  spy. 
I  know  not ;  yet  one  watching,  overbold, 
That  broidered  pageant  hath  the  secret  told : 
How  all  the  fairies  rustled  to  and  fro, 
Like  busy  leaves,  till  their  one  moment's  woe 
Changed,  on  a  sudden,  to  a  mad  delight. 
And  how  they  spent  the  remnant  of  the  night 
With  brewing  purest  broth,  in  heat  of  moon, 
After  the  spell  of  that  strange,  mystic  rune. 
And  how  they  straightway  cried,  with  urgent  voice, 
Upon  their  king,  bidding  his  soul  rejoice ; 
For  they  had  found  the  source  of  elves'  delight : 
A  fusion  meant  to  make  black  hair  from  white, 
And  supple  joint  from  out  the  creaking  hinge, 
And  thrills  of  joyance  from  old  age's  twinge. 
And  how  the  king  himself  came  riding  swift 
On  a  light-beam  that  seemed  but  a  rift 
Within  the  darkened  air  ;  and  how  they  drank 
Of  their  rich  brew  together,  till  down  sank 
69 


The  The  morning  star ;  and  then  a  shining  way 

^ffh*       Opened  before  them  like  the  new-sprung  day. 
Fairies.     Straight  from  the  earth  it  ran  and  pierced  the  sky, 

There  where  the  dawn  hath  set  her  minstrelsy. 

And  all  the  fairies  fled  that  radiant  road 

To  some  ethereal  and  far  abode 

Prepared  for  them  ere  earth  had  grown  too  rude 

For  harboring  of  her  most  delicate  brood. 

Some  say  't  was  Cynthia's  hall  they  sought  at  last. 
I  know  not ;  yet  I  saw  her  shield  hung  fast, 
Nailed  to  the  throbbing  dome  of  heaven,  last  night, 
And  never  did  it  shine  more  purely  bright  : 
As  if  the  maiden  set  it  there  to  tell 
Where  beauty  liveth,  there  may  fancy  dwell ; 
And  no  sweet  dream  within  the  heart  hath  root, 
But  lies  a  land  wherein  the  dream  bears  fruit. 


X?> 

/ 

I    UNI 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF  / 

•PN\^X 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


JUL  271917 

uMn 

MAt  ,19 


8EP  17 


IN  STACKS 

JAN  28  1981 


BE&  CI8.APR  2S  '77 


/ 


1 69103 


